Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Twenty (In which Mark finds humor in an odd place - until he doesn't, and Olivia hides behind a Wall.)

Even when Mark's laughing subsided, Lorenzo was still mildly concerned. Amusement was not a typical response from a patient who had just been told he had a chronic kidney disease.

After McCormick had turned serious, though, he seemed unable to make sense of his reaction, or even to form a lucid statement. Martina and Hardcastle were assigned the task of discussing the particulars with the doctor – the two took turns, telling their respective accounts of the last few days. Milt shared the gist of Mark's appointment with Charlie, allowing that Charlie's gut feeling had been that PKD was a good possibility. Martina spoke of Mark's recent frequent bruises, and of the family connection. That final detail caused the doctor's expression to change from concerned to curious.

"His daughter is a patient here?" Dr. Lorenzo raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I don't get to Pediatrics often, but I don't recall recently seeing another patient named McCormick."

"She's been out of the hospital a little over a week. . . Her name is Rivera. Olivia Rivera? She's our daughter." Martina touched Mark's shoulder. "She was diagnosed with PKD last month."

"And his mother had polycystic kidney disease as well?"

"Who knows?" Mark said vaguely. He closed his eyes and then reopened them slowly. They were somewhat glassy and unfocused.

Lorenzo looked thoughtful. "So my news wasn't exactly a surprise. Just more of a confirmation."

"You could say that." Hardcastle was watching McCormick closely, not liking the disconnected look on the young man's face. "Although we were hoping for a better diagnosis."

Dr. Lorenzo gave a brief nod. "Even so, polycystic kidney disease is manageable." He addressed Mark. "Living with the disease will be an adjustment – you will need to make appropriate lifestyle changes, and medication is often necessary." The doctor seemed to also notice Mark's distracted state, and decided that was enough information for now. "But these are issues you will need to discuss further with the nephrologist. I've referred your case to Dr. Shire."

"He's Olivia's doctor," Martina said. At roughly the same time, Mark said, "That's stupid. I already have a doctor. His name's. . . Wesson."

Milt frowned, then shared an uneasy look with Martina. "Wesson's in California, sport. We're a little far from there right now."

McCormick shook his head. "Charlie already made the appointment. Why should I see someone new? It doesn't make sense."

"You're not making a lot of sense right now, kiddo. You missed that appointment, remember?" Hardcastle's frown deepened.

Mark leaned back against his pillow. "I don't want to see another doctor. I don't . . . I need time to think. I can't talk to someone else about this right now. I just need some time." The resolute words were spoken in a harsh, agitated voice.

"That's understandable, Mr. McCormick," Lorenzo said kindly. "I'll let the three of you have some time alone. You can let me know when you're ready for Dr. Shire to stop in." The doctor moved to the doorway, and Hardcastle reluctantly left the bedside to see him out. "Thanks, Doctor," Milt said, extending a hand. "We'll talk to him, try and get him settled down."

Lorenzo shook his hand, smiling sadly. "I am sorry for the unfortunate diagnosis. But I'm glad that Mr. McCormick has family here to help him through this."

Hardcastle glossed over the allusion to family – But who else would you follow cross-country at the drop of a hat, if not family? – and instead said, "He'd probably rather you call him Mark. If he wasn't so off his game right now, he'd ask you that himself."

Dr. Lorenzo smiled again, and this time it was accompanied by a chuckle. "That's fine. And if he's more comfortable referring to me by my first name, he can call me Marco."

ooOoo

When Milt turned from the doorway to go back to McCormick's bed, he saw that Mark and Martina were in an apparent quarrel. Wondering what could have happened in the brief amount of time he'd been speaking to the doctor, he made a point of clearing his throat loudly. "What's going on?" he asked next.

Martina looked away from Mark, and the judge was struck by the pained worry on her face. "Talk to him, Milt. Tell him he needs us here."

McCormick spoke before Hardcastle could. "I'm in a hospital, for God's sake! I don't need you two to hover over me every minute!" He looked at the judge pointedly. "I said, I need time!"

Hardcastle dropped his head, inhaling deeply. "Kiddo, you need to get a hold of yourself – "

Mark raised his hands to rake them through his hair. He ignored the pull of the IV on his left arm. "Judge, you have no idea what I'm going through right now."

"Oh, I don't, do I?" Hardcastle shot back.

McCormick acknowledged the reference, but with more disgust than compassion. "Hell, you didn't even feel sick. Because you weren't. This is real," he said, gesturing at himself. "And I don't care if it pisses you off, but I want to be alone. Now."

Martina reached for Mark's hand. "Mark, please –"

Mark pulled his hand away, jamming it under the bedsheet. He purposefully shifted on the bed to look blankly in the opposite direction. His face had hardened into a glare that Hardcastle recognized as impenetrable. The older man sighed, and then turned to Martina.

"Let's go. Leave him be."

"But Milt, he has to –"

Hardcastle shook his head tightly. "Later," he murmured. As Martina slowly moved away from Mark, Hardcastle spoke a little louder. "I'm heading to the hotel."

There was no movement or sound from the man in the bed, to alert whether he had heard, or even cared, about the judge's location. "Okay," Milt muttered. He took Martina by the elbow, and escorted her out into the hall.

Once the two were out of the room, yet possibly not out of earshot, Martina rounded on the judge. "How could you leave him alone like that, after getting that news? What kind of a friend does that?"

Hardcastle walked a few paces away from Mark's room before turning to answer. "I'm a close enough friend to know when he needs some space. If we push him too much right now he's just gonna completely shut off, and how do you think we're supposed to help him then?"

"You act like I don't know him, like I don't know how he can get." Martina's tone was defensive. "He was like this when his mother was sick. But when she died he came to me, he needed me. He needs someone now!"

Milt looked at Martina with mild annoyance. "Yeah, he told me what happened back then. First he clobbered someone. Then he wandered around for hours before he came to you. Because he needed space. Listen, I'm not telling you to go home – just leave him alone for a while."

Martina seemed to sag a little. The fight went out of her, replaced with desperation. "I can't just leave him alone. I know how scared I was when I got this news about Olivia – I'm still scared. It's only been a few weeks since we found out, and I still don't have my head around it all yet. I see her now, I see how she's feeling better, and I can almost forget. And then I do remember, and it scares me so much I can hardly breathe. He's got to be terrified."

"I think you're right," Milt agreed, "but I don't think either of us is going to get him to admit that he's scared, though."

Martina sighed, acknowledging defeat. "No, he wouldn't even admit that he was sick. My mother might not have even gotten him here if it wasn't –"

She stopped suddenly, and an expression of hope lit her face. Hardcastle narrowed his eyes. "What?" he asked warily.

"Mark might be shutting us out right now, but I think I know who might be able to get through to him." Martina was now all business. "You go to the hotel, get some rest," she directed to the judge. "I have a phone call to make."

Sandra Rivera replaced the phone on the base, stood quietly for a few moments, and then walked down the hall to her granddaughter's room. Knocking on the door was ineffective, as the loud music that was emanating from inside drowned out her continual raps. With an impatient sigh, Sandra turned the knob and let herself into the room.

Olivia was lying on her stomach on her bed, with a pillow scrunched up under her chin and her shoes kicked off onto the floor. The stereo was set to the compact disc component, and from the open case on top of the armoire, Sandra deduced that the offending noise she was hearing was Pink Floyd's The Wall. With not even a little guilt, she hit the power button on the stereo to cease the music.

Olivia immediately rolled over on her bed. She opened her mouth to shoot off a smart comment, something along the lines of "I was listening to that," and then she saw the expression on her grandmother's face.

Olivia rose to a sitting position. "What is it? What's wrong? Is it Mark?"

Sandra sat on the bed. "Your mother called. Mark got his ultrasound results. They showed he has PKD."

The girl's brow furrowed in confusion. "But I thought he already knew that. That's why he was having the ultrasound, right?"

"No, I believe the ultrasound was more to check on the kidney stone. They wanted to see it more in detail – see better what size it was, and if it had moved." Sandra paused, trying to recall Martina's words. "Mark knew PKD was a possibility, but that was as far as he would accept. Now that he's gotten the results, he's not doing very well."

"What does that mean?" Olivia asked, her voice pitching upward. "Is he worse?"

Sandra shook her head, reaching out to steady her granddaughter. "No, Olivia, I shouldn't have said it like that. I meant he's not dealing with it very well. Your mother said he's refusing to speak to her or to his friend, and basically kicked them out of his room."

Olivia sat silently, looking at the floor under her stocking feet. It had only been a few weeks since her pediatrician had entered her room with another unknown doctor, a "specialist" who had spoken solemnly to the three of them about her own ultrasound results. It wasn't hard to remember how lost she had felt, how scared and alone, even with her mother and her grandmother by her side.

But she wouldn't have asked them to leave for the world. Although there was nothing either of them could do to make the illness go away, just having them there, having their love and support, had made her feel calmer, more balanced. Not necessarily optimistic, but also not hopeless.

"Why won't he talk to anyone?" Olivia asked now. "They just want to help him."

"Your mother thinks he's acting this way because he's scared." And maybe a little dramatic.

Olivia looked puzzled. "But he's an adult. Why would he be scared?"

Sandra sighed deeply. "Oh, Olivia, there's no age limit on being afraid."

"You sound like Evelyn." Since Olivia's diagnosis, she had met with a therapist twice – once in the hospital, and then again just four days ago, the day before her mother had flown to California. Olivia had found it very easy to talk with Evelyn Silvers, and had shared things she couldn't say to her mother and her grandmother, things she knew would just make them more sad or worried. Sharing those fearful thoughts with someone who was impartial, and then being told that those thoughts were normal and healthy, had been a comforting release. "Maybe it would help Mark," Olivia said next, "if he could talk to someone like Evelyn."

Sandra looked at her granddaughter with a faint smile.

"Your mother thinks that's exactly what he needs – and she has a certain someone in mind."